


Worship in the Bedroom

by vorokis



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Blood, Blow Jobs, M/M, Mild Gore, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Power Dynamics, Service Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-14 22:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19282438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorokis/pseuds/vorokis
Summary: It borders on obsession, what slams viciously back into life in Dante in the months following Vergil’s return. It’s a thing that’s been dormant in him for more than two decades, a muscle slack and weak now brimming with electric life and an incessant pulse. Dante spends every moment acutely cognizant of his brother with an awareness that originates and operates at cellular level, the deepest parts of him re-attuning themselves to Vergil.(Or: Dante thirsts really hard after Vergil and Vergil indulges him and is a little bit mean about it.)





	Worship in the Bedroom

**Author's Note:**

> It has taken me way too long to finish this fic but here it finally is. Please go marvel over [this beautiful drawing](https://twitter.com/zmea_art/status/1120786024551071744?s=19) done by the very lovely Mof back in the beginning when I first started writing this story months ago -- what an amazing cheerleader! Thank you also to the Spardacest server for their endless support and kindness. Title is from Hozier's 'Take Me to Church', of course. Enjoy!

It borders on obsession, what slams viciously back into life in Dante in the months following Vergil’s return. It’s a thing that’s been dormant in him for more than two decades, a muscle slack and weak now brimming with electric life and an incessant pulse. Dante spends every moment acutely cognizant of his brother with an awareness that originates and operates at cellular level, the deepest parts of him re-attuning themselves to Vergil. 

The fixation is two-fold. There is a discernible threat in his home. A powerful demon sits casually at his table, touches his possessions, sleeps where Dante sleeps. But more than that: this demon also resonates too much with his own. He feels enough like a component part finally returned that Dante’s two natures are pacified. Allured. Vergil is a hellish distraction and the closest thing to heaven to his senses. His presence in the same room draws Dante’s immediate attention—demands it. He’s put on edge and he’s settled. 

In typical Vergil fashion, his brother is and inspires so many things all at once. Dante would be lying if he said he hadn’t missed the cacophony of it. Missed him. 

They’re spending their days reacquainting themselves with one another, fighting, fucking, finding a way to somehow piece their lives together into something resembling coherence. Vergil is steadily reading his way through Dante’s little library. He unsheathes Yamato next to him on jobs and he maneuvers his way through conversations with Nero, aloof but not as aloof as he could’ve been. Not inflexible ice that refuses to thaw. Dante cleans more often, tries to drink less, and—magnanimously, in his opinion—concedes to eating something other than pizza on Tuesdays and Thursdays at least. In the cool darkness of dusk, they speak sometimes of things they can’t in the light of day. Bones get broken. Furniture, sometimes. But no one leaves. No one stays away. 

They’ve taken to regular walks outside, too, and Dante’s taken to observing with most likely poorly concealed fascination as his brother acclimatizes himself to the world again. New habits have manifested themselves—Vergil tilts his head up into rain or touches the verdant leaves of a dangling branch as he walks under it. He stands in sunlight, gazing up into a sky too vivid for ordinary human eyes as if he wants to burn its brightness into himself. Carry it with him like a secret, subsumed torch into any future darkness. 

At times, something inexplicable will fall over his face: the shadow of a solemn thought or memory that Dante doesn’t know, might never know without Vergil telling him. It grates him, the not knowing, now just as much as it had done when he’d been a boy and it had been inconceivable that there were parts of his brother held back from him. That he wasn’t fully immersed in Vergil’s private world, barred by Vergil himself with the worn spine of a book or a clever hiding spot Dante couldn’t uncover.    

The same desire still plagues him—stronger, maybe, with this half-familiar, half-foreign configuration of his brother he’s found himself with—but these days, Dante also better understands the need to stand apart. Keep yourself shielded even among those you trust. He’s done enough of it himself, so he keeps his silence and makes none of the demands he might’ve once upon a time. 

He contents himself with watching, a breeze gently stroking along his cheek on this mild night as he and Vergil walk the familiar path back to the shop. Briefly, Dante pauses on the narrow road to allow a teenage girl to pass by him. The pause puts Vergil ahead of him. 

Dante doesn’t bother stepping back in line with his brother, his focus settling on Vergil’s regal form, trailing over the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his perfectly straight spine beneath the soft velvet expanse of his coat. Vergil’s swept-back hair is a shining silver crown in the moonlight. He walks as if they have all the time in the world. 

Dante never kids himself that his brother doesn’t notice any of his glances. Vergil simply likes to keep his own silences, the quietly calculating kind of a watchful hunter. 

At the door, Dante fishes out his keys, and Vergil steps to one side, standing away just enough to keep out of Dante’s path, but not enough that their arms don’t brush, distracting warmth pouring from him. 

It’s a deliberate move. Dante carefully feigns ignorance. Inside, he makes sure to lock the door. 

“Your usual, I take it?” he asks, shrugging out of his coat, leaving it lying on his desk. He heads towards their collection of drinks. 

“Why not,” Vergil replies. 

Searching out a clean glass, Dante fills it halfway with sweet-smelling wine for his brother and grabs a bottle of beer for himself before turning back around.  

Vergil’s taken off his own coat, sitting with his long legs crossed and one bare arm resting on the back of the leather couch, bent at the elbow. It merely draws Dante’s attention to the firm muscles there, the prodigious strength that he’s felt at full force against him time and again, used for pain, for pleasure, for a thrilling amalgam of everything in between. 

“Is something the matter, Dante?” Vergil asks, insouciant, and Dante raises his eyes. Vergil is gazing back at him steadily with a look that reaches inwards, yanks at the magnetic force that’s forever working in Dante’s blood, leaping to answer the familiar tug from Vergil’s. 

Dante walks the rest of the way half under his own power, half under the lure of that look. “Nope,” he replies, handing over Vergil’s glass of wine, taking a seat beside him. He replicates the same distance Vergil had put and not put between them at the door. “Everything’s just peachy.” 

“Is that so.” 

“That _is_ so. Why you askin’?”

Vergil tilts his glass, observing the wine sloshing to one side. Then he raises it to his mouth, drinking with his head slightly tilted back. The line of his throat is long and looks soft to the touch. Easily breakable under Dante’s teeth. He follows the gentle bob of Vergil’s swallow. 

“That’s why,” Vergil says. “You’re doing it again. Staring at me as if you were never taught better manners.”  

“My bad,” Dante says, unapologetic. 

“I suppose you think I should be flattered by the attention.” 

“Since when did you care about what I think?”

“I don’t,” Vergil says. “It still astonishes me you’re capable of thinking at all.” 

“And to _think_ ,” Dante says with teasing emphasis, “I was even nice enough to pour you wine tonight.” 

“Is there any particular reason for the attention?”

There are elisions Dante can go for. Deflections come to him with incredible ease. “Just admiring the view,” he says, opting for the truth though it's still couched in the playful tone of a joke. 

“The view seems to have affected you.”

“That’s how you like it, isn’t it? You’d be offended if I wasn’t affected.”

“You always get so restless,” Vergil says as if put-upon, “and then I have to screw you out of it,” but there’s a little sly-fox smile on his face at his own wordplay because he certainly had screwed Dante _out of it_ the previous night; fucked him over and over like only a devil could, so relentless that Dante had been dizzy and debilitated by the sheer intensity of the pleasure, darkness overtaking him in the final moments. He’d woken in the morning, irritated to find the soreness healed away, and had only perfunctorily slicked himself open before sinking back down onto Vergil’s cock, returning the ache and the bliss back to where it belonged. 

But naturally he can’t let his smug bastard of a brother know any of that, so Dante says, “Your life sounds so hard,” and grins. “Pun intended.” Under Vergil’s gaze, he fixes his mouth to his bottle and drinks in purposely slow, long drags, pulling off just as slow. His tongue darts out to catch a bitter drop. 

“Are you going to fellate the bottle next?” Vergil asks flatly. 

“Woah. Can’t a man enjoy his beer without lewd accusations against his person?” 

“Says a man who enjoys both beer and lewdness.”

“And what’s it say about you that that’s your type?”

“You’re an exception to the rule, I assure you, so feel honored.” 

“Well,” Dante says, “I do like being special.”

Vergil makes a sarcastic sound and drinks some more in fine sips from his glass, nothing any less indecent about the parting of his sumptuous lips and the wet sheen left behind by the wine. 

Dante wants to lick it away and leave his brother’s mouth wet from Dante’s own. “You know exactly why I’ve been looking at you,” he says. 

“It’s more entertaining if I make you admit it.” 

“Huh.” Dante downs the rest of his beer, carelessly depositing it down onto the floor after. “All right, then,” he says and angles himself towards Vergil, sidling closer. “Fine. I admit it.” 

Vergil says nothing. Those new storm-grey eyes of his are speculative and unblinking. Assessing, Dante knows, the demon that's freely invading Vergil's space like it's his to invade. 

Dante doesn’t look away. He circles fingers around Vergil’s glass and takes it from an unresisting grip, reaching across his brother to set the glass down on the armrest on Vergil’s other side. He leaves his hand there beside the glass, places the other behind Vergil’s shoulder on the back of the couch. Gently cages Vergil in. “I admit,” Dante says, a rumble that starts in his chest and rolls huskily out of his throat, “that the only thing I’ve been thinking about all day long is getting my hands all over you.” 

“Oh?” Vergil says mildly. 

“Mm, yeah. Thought about getting you naked, getting you hard.” Dante leans in towards the warmth and sweetness of Vergil’s breath and inhales it into himself. “Getting you in my mouth. My throat. Sucking you off ‘til your come’s all I can taste.” 

“I see.” 

Like Dante is saying nothing of significance at all.  

The nonchalance digs hotly under Dante’s skin. Fresh desire ruptures and bleeds through him, his body waterlogged with its fire and lightning. 

“Such indecent thoughts,” Vergil continues, “even when you were helping that elderly woman cross the street? For shame, Dante.”

“You didn’t at least like my show of manners?”

“Knowing you might have been hard at the time admittedly changes the impression I received. Do better next time and, who knows, I might even clap.”  

A rough, sharp bark of laughter darts out of Dante. “You’re such an asshole. Why do I even keep you around? You're clearly the exception to _my_ rule.” 

“Wrong,” Vergil says with easy arrogance. “I _am_ your rule. The only one you have.” 

A presumption Dante should’ve hated—would’ve hated as an unruly, obstinate teenager—but it’s less a presumption and more a solid truth now. Some things he can’t refute. Doesn’t want to refute. What he wants is right in front of him. Vergil, infuriating with the taunting slash of his smirks and enthralling with the softer curl of his rare smiles in less guarded moments. Dante has been reaching for him with a scarred hand seemingly all his life and now, by some miracle, he has him. Vergil stands willingly within his grasp. He’s beautifully tangible beneath Dante’s thumb as he runs it over the edge of Vergil’s jaw. 

His brother’s hand snaps up to grab Dante’s. He halts its movement as if he’s contemplating refusing him or challenging him for the right to proceed. If he does, it won’t be the first time. 

Dante reins in his impatience even as his demon slithers wildly under his skin in anticipation, pressing up against the surface with a grin of needles. He waits, each second marked by the pound of his heart.  

Then Vergil pulls him forward and they crash together.  

The first touch, the first taste, always leaves Dante moaning. The softness of Vergil’s mouth, his tongue slick and teasing against Dante’s—it’s addictive, it’s all-consuming. Ignition and conflagration in one. It disrupts Dante’s thoughts and sends him into overdrive, a sharp flare sparking in between his legs. 

“Is this what you’ve been aching for,” Vergil asks, a hot little whisper against Dante’s lips. 

“It’s not enough,” Dante says with an almost-snarl, leaning in again, kissing Vergil hard, kissing him deep, ravenous, feasting on his mouth, and Vergil responds in kind, two apex predators trying to make prey out of each other. 

Dante can’t help his urgency—hasn’t been able to since they’d kissed on their first night back from the Underworld. This voracity is ingrained in him. He simply looks at Vergil and that’s all it takes; he hungers, he thirsts, and it is a hunger that will never be fully satiated and a thirst that will never be fully spent. It makes him clutch at Vergil with tightness that would’ve crushed the bone had Vergil not been what he is—Dante’s equivalent, his complement. Clambering gracelessly onto his brother’s lap, Dante pushes in as close as he can. Vergil’s arms wind around his waist to lock him in place, and all there is for long, endless moments is the wet, savage clash of their mouths. They fight in this as they fight in everything else, violent and harmonious in equal measure. 

The need to breathe hits their inhuman lungs eventually. It’s with deep reluctance that Dante eases off, panting fast against Vergil’s lips, the seams of himself strained already just from this. His cock jerks up in its leather confines, throbbing fierce and fiercer still when Vergil says, “It’s never enough for you. Always so eager for another _hard fuck_ ,” with his crisp pronunciation deliberately, deliciously sharp, twisting the vulgar words into something dirtier than what they already would’ve been. 

There’s a hard clench in Dante’s belly. A hard surge everywhere else. All the hunger in him leans devotedly towards that sinful voice and its glittering, indecent promises. “When it’s you? Obviously.” 

“Not that you ever really tried to be anything less than covetous when it came to me and what belonged to me.” 

Instantly, as if waiting to be summoned, the words leap onto Dante’s tongue, tasting too much of the truth: I _am_ something that belongs to you. I have been all along, even when I didn’t know it.  

But he leaves them unvoiced, slips them back down his throat with a swallow, and fills his mouth with the taste of Vergil’s instead, tangling one burning kiss with another and another and another. Vergil drags his teeth over Dante’s lips, leaves them stinging; Dante bruises him back, grins at Vergil’s chuckle. 

“I can smell how ready you are,” his brother says.

“Like you’re not getting hot for me, too,” Dante replies, looking into eyes that are finally more dark than pale, shadowed by lust. Vergil lowers a hand, grabs Dante’s dick tight, and Dante grunts at the abrupt explosion of pleasure. “Fucker,” he says with no venom, catching the twitch of Vergil’s mouth. 

“Later,” Vergil says, “but if I recall correctly, you said you wanted me in your mouth.” He raises an expectant eyebrow, holding the trapped weight of Dante’s cock like it’s a possession he owns. “What’s stopping you, little brother.” 

The lust that twists through Dante is a twist so sharp it’s excruciating and that is also all Vergil: pleasure deep enough to become pain and reverberate back into pleasure all the more intense. 

“Thought you’d never ask,” he says, sliding down onto the floor inelegantly. 

There’s a faint creak beneath his knees. Uncomfortable hardness. It doesn’t matter; the only thing hard he’s interested in is within Vergil’s trousers, which he opens with practiced fingers to reveal his brother’s cock—its plumpness, its slick, pink head, its _scent_ , heady, thick, spilling out to bend Dante’s mind and drag an intoxicated moan loose from him. His mouth grows wet with the craving to bury his face in between Vergil’s legs and drench himself, his mouth, his throat, with the lush scent of his brother’s arousal and the unforgettable tang of his come.  

Above him, soft and supercilious, Vergil says, “How easily you go down onto your knees for me. What would the demons who fear you say if they could see you like this? What would those humans who call you ‘ _legendary_ ’ say?”

“I don’t give a fuck what they’d say,” Dante replies. “Besides, you’d never let anyone else see me like this. Too fucking possessive.”

Vergil’s eyes are savagely pleased. He looks down at Dante as an emperor would his servant. “It doesn’t sound like you’re complaining.” 

“I’m not,” Dante says, low, guttural, taking hold of Vergil’s hot thickness by the base. “‘S not like I’d ever let anyone else see you like this, either.”

Parting his lips, he licks at the glistening head, smears pre-come onto his parched tongue. His thirst eases. Deepens. Dante licks again, gingerly. Hears the breath his brother draws in through his nose.  

Gently, Vergil brushes away the hair falling over Dante’s eyes and threads his fingers through the strands at his temple, a grip that doesn’t pull or direct, just holds. He watches Dante with an intensity that entrances Dante into gazing up from beneath his lashes, imitating coyness as he takes the head of Vergil’s cock into his mouth with a light suck. Lingering over plumpness, he teases the slit, circles around it, gets Vergil’s cockhead all slicker with spit, and then, without warning, Dante thrusts his mouth down the rest of Vergil’s length, sucking it in deep with a wet sound just as obscene as the shameless moan that pours out of him, broken free by the firm-silk scrape of cock grazing along the softness of his mouth. Something base and basic in him is fulfilled by the heavy weight on his tongue and the salt spilling some more at the back of his throat.

Vergil’s groan is sudden, thundery. His eyes narrow into slits that pin Dante down. “This mouth,” he murmurs, “is the best weapon you have in your arsenal, Dante. Nothing else compares.” 

Delectable heat stings along Dante’s nape at the praise. He uncurls his hand from around Vergil’s cock to dig all his fingers into the taut tension at Vergil’s thighs. Drawing his head back, Dante drags his tongue along the underside of his brother’s cock in a long swipe, and now Vergil’s grip in his hair tightens, keeping Dante from pulling off completely, a hold that he feels like crushing pressure around his own dick. 

“I don’t think so,” Vergil says huskily, sliding his cock back in, slow but unrelenting, hitting the back of Dante’s throat, and Dante swallows, hard, deliberately, moans with accomplishment at the jerk of Vergil’s cock in his mouth. “The way you love it, Dante,” Vergil continues, pulling back and thrusting in, again, again, again, using Dante’s mouth like it’s a convenient, hot, wet place and Dante takes it, loves it just as his brother said, moaning deep in his abused throat for more each time. He makes it easy for Vergil to go deeper, loosening up his jaw ‘cause he can’t resist, he can’t not have all of Vergil inside, greedy for it, fucking—

” _Dying_ for it,” Vergil hisses as if Dante’s thoughts are spilling out on a page for him to read, “like you need my cock to survive,” and Dante groans in helpless agreement, Vergil's live wire voice crackling into every part of him, lingering to keep sizzling in his blood. He tries to swallow around the thickness in his throat, tries to keep it trapped there. Jagged pleasure sears down his spine, twisting sharply in his balls. His eyes prickle faintly. 

Naturally, Vergil notices. He touches a fingertip to Dante’s lashes. Says, “Should I make you cry, baby brother,” with such tender cruelty that there’s no holding back the shattered sound Dante makes. He shivers violently as if Vergil’s just run the tip of Yamato over all the needy parts of him and he has to let go of Vergil’s thigh to desperately grind the heel of one palm against his own straining cock. His muffled groan is impeded by Vergil’s dick where it still occupies the back of Dante’s throat, pre-come staining into soft muscle, dripping down into the rest of him. Vergil’s inordinately fond of this in particular, likes to keep his cock in the back of Dante’s throat, housing it in the wet warmth there like that’s the only reason Dante has a throat at all. 

A few more minutes of this and even Dante will have trouble breathing. Haziness will blur his thoughts and mist his vision. His world will tip upside down.

Dante wants it madly. Would die for it. 

But his brother, cruel and capricious as gods of old, denies him. Vergil pulls out from Dante’s throat and Dante whines at the loss and though Vergil says, “No, I think I’ll have mercy on you tonight," his mercy is a harsh one, the shove of his hips slamming his cock back inside Dante’s mouth in short, fast, rough thrusts, a force that Dante leans clumsily into. 

His eyes tear up some despite Vergil’s words, strangled sounds escaping him at every unforgiving slide until finally Vergil pulls back enough that his cock simply sits on Dante’s tongue. He comes, groaning like there’s nothing better in the world than pouring thick into Dante’s mouth, and Dante gluts himself on the flood, swallowing and swallowing and swallowing. He keeps sucking even when Vergil is soft and his brother hisses from over-sensitivity, pulling out brusquely. Dante breaks out into wet coughs, hauling in large, shuddering breaths. His hand shakes lightly as he wipes his mouth with the back. 

The rawness in his throat, the salt and bitter in his mouth—all of it is exquisite. All of it not enough. The feral ache of desire still beats in his belly, in between his legs. He needs Vergil again. Always again. 

“The look on your face,” Vergil says, tracing Dante’s swollen lips. “Hungry. Starving. Your desire is unending.” 

“I thought,” Dante rasps in his ruined voice, “we already established it’s never enough for me.” 

Vergil leans down and Dante turns stock-still, his eyes closing briefly when Vergil licks gently beneath his lower lashes, first the right, then the left, catching the small trails of tears that have snuck out. 

Knowing what’s next, Dante tips his head up instinctively and meets the kiss Vergil initiates. That he always initiates after Dante’s had his mouth on his cock, as if Vergil needs to taste himself in Dante’s mouth, taste the both of them together. 

It’s open-mouthed, filthy. Slick with too much tongue, hints of Dante’s tears somewhere in there. Vergil samples what he’s filled Dante with, taking it back ‘til they just taste like them again. He draws away and Dante strains forward, chasing his mouth, seeking to mend the broken kiss. 

Vergil stops him with a finger pressing lightly at Dante’s lips and distracts him further with, “It would be remiss of me to not provide when you’re still in such great need.”

“‘Remiss,’” Dante says. “Yeah, that’s exactly the word I’d use.” 

Vergil smiles. He doesn’t bother to fix himself before he stands and it’s worse than if he had been entirely naked, the way he presents an immaculate picture as usual save for the open fastening of his trousers obscenely exposing his cock. Dante struggles for a long, scorching moment to not simply remain there on his knees and lean in again to press his face against his brother’s length, take it back into his mouth to choke upon.  

Judging by the smirk growing on Vergil’s lips, Dante’s struggle is plain for him to see and that’s what pushes Dante up onto his feet, reaching out to seize Vergil again, get rid of that smirk with a bite of a kiss, inevitably losing himself in Vergil’s mouth again. 

They make it to the bedroom blind, losing their gloves, their boots, and Dante’s shirt along the way. Dante shoves Vergil down onto the bed that’s now theirs, will _stay_ theirs forever if Dante has his way, but Vergil doesn’t go down without struggle, yanking roughly at Dante in retaliation. They descend into messy grappling that Dante loses immediately the moment Vergil crowds him back into the bed, shoves Dante’s trousers down, and gets a hand around his cock, smearing the pre-come downwards to dampen his grip. 

Dante hisses, bucking up immediately, pushing himself through the not-wet-enough curl of Vergil’s fingers, running after the gritty friction. “ _Fuck_ , fuck, that’s good, keep—yeah.”

“I’m not going to have to do much at all,” Vergil says. “Just having my cock in your mouth has brought you this far already.” 

“You always,” Dante pants, “gotta talk like a dick?”

“How like you to pick the obvious and unimaginative insult.” Vergil rubs his other hand over Dante’s chest, digging his palm into a nipple and it tightens up, both of Dante’s nipples do, aching sweetly. “Besides, your body enjoys it so much when I talk.” 

“I’ll have to have a word with my body later.” 

“You could try,” Vergil says and shows how futile he thinks the idea is by stroking Dante fast and vicious, playing Dante’s body with ruthless single-minded intent until he’s incoherent and coming, orgasm crashing into him with sledgehammer intensity. Dante arches up against Vergil, groaning as his brother works him through it, keeping him anchored under that heavy, crushing tide. 

When he can see straight again, it’s just in time to catch Vergil licking along his own hand, chasing the splatters of Dante’s come slow and salacious, the hottest fucking thing Dante’s seen, and Dante whines in his throat like he’s still captured in the merciless grip of his climax. “And you said I was the dangerous one,” he bites out, almost angry. “Fucking stop. You’re gonna end me.” 

Dragging his brother down to him, Dante smothers Vergil’s chuckle, licks sloppily at the taste of himself, and feels a resurgence of bitter gladness that he’d never kissed Vergil when they were younger. Had never learned how magnificent his brother’s mouth is and been forced to mourn the loss of something so precious.  

Vergil’s hands tug once more at Dante’s trousers, stripping them off, throwing them somewhere behind. Dante doesn’t care where when Vergil’s tongue is in his mouth and he has Vergil’s sweet bulk pressing against his naked body, but he does care when Vergil sits back up. 

“Hey—” 

“Are you really going to complain when I’m about to take my clothes off?”

Dante pauses. Makes a _fair enough_ gesture with his hands. “Continue.” 

Vergil looks as if he’s gamely suppressing the roll of his eyes. His hands move deftly over his vest and trousers; they fall open, fall down, revealing what Dante’s seen enough times but what still turns his mouth dry and prods viciously at his cock, reawakening the arousal that never really goes away when it comes to his brother. There’s no excess to Vergil. His body is meticulously cut marble, the ripples of his flat belly carved finely, his legs endless in their creaminess. The only softness in all that long, immaculate ivory are his pale pink nipples. The only slickness is at his cock, hard and seeping again, calling to Dante’s tongue, to his throat, the house it is for Vergil’s dick.   

“Tell me,” Vergil says, crawling back over Dante with a hunting cat’s grace. “What does my greedy little brother want now?”

Dante remembers the night before. Vergil’s cock inside him, heavy and blunt and glorious, splitting him in two but that had been just fine because he’d known Vergil would put him back together again. Tonight, he looks at Vergil and strokes his hands gently over Vergil’s ribs, going over to the small of his back, then lower, filling his palms with firm, plump muscle. “This,” he says. “I wanna be inside you.”

“Persuade me.”

“You just wanna hear me say ‘please’.”

“If you do, I won’t be stopping you.” 

Dante bites at him, not nearly hard enough to draw blood from Vergil’s lower lip, but then he eases into the persuasion his brother wants by taking the rest of Vergil’s mouth slow and soft. “C’mon, Verge,” he says, makes it a breathy little song, wrapping adoration around his brother’s name. “Let me have you.”

With careful touches, he turns them around, Vergil elegantly sprawling out under him, the hot, damp slide of their skin still as luxurious as it’s been every time. Leaving behind Vergil’s lips is a torment, but the taste along the line of his throat assuages Dante some. He mouths a wet stripe down to Vergil's elegant collarbones, murmurs, “Let me make you feel good, hmm?” over the valley between his pectorals, and sucks down his taut stomach, towards the cock growing thick with renewed interest. “Just wanna make you feel good,” Dante says into the crease of one thigh, close to the swell of Vergil’s balls where his musk is so much stronger. 

Dante’s mouth is watering again. He feels desire clench tight in him, so tight it leaves him momentarily speechless, and he groans into Vergil’s skin, shuddering hard, suddenly so much closer to uttering that _please_ after all. “Vergil,” he says, voice shredded with need, hands clutching at Vergil’s hips with their own plea. “Let me.”

Vergil’s fingers stroke through Dante’s hair as if he is a beloved pet. “You sound like it’s the only thing in the world you could need right now.” 

“Right now, it is,” Dante says roughly. Each time they do this, he thinks: We’ve lost so many years. I have so much to make up for. 

“Is my pleasure that paramount? Would you be a slave to it?”

“Who else could do this for you,” Dante says, a growl at the edge of every jagged word and a rage storming up in his blood at the possibility that anyone else would dare, would ever think themselves worthy of his brother in any way let alone the ways that belong to Dante and Dante alone. “No one else is good enough. They wouldn’t treat you right, not how I would.” 

Vergil’s laughter is deep and languid and rolling, and Dante would live inside of it if he could. “I approve of your considerate intentions, brother. Consider me persuaded,” Vergil says silkily, muscular thighs shifting further open in invitation. “Be a slave to my pleasure. Serve me. _Please_ me, Dante.”

Heady acquiescence rushes swiftly through Dante’s body, leaving him almost breathless from its sharpness. He kisses gratitude into Vergil’s mouth and reaches blindly for where he knows the lube is. Vergil accommodates him, slinging a leg over Dante’s shoulder and staring up at him with scalding heat in his cool blue fire eyes. 

Dante’s gentle with the first few strokes of his slick finger over Vergil’s opening. He’s gentle as he presses until he’s a knuckle deep in where Vergil’s so hot and soft and snug. Gentle as he leans down to lick at the flushed tip of his brother’s dick, watching how Vergil’s fine steel face eases with pleasure. 

Vergil shifts to take in the slide of Dante’s fingers some more, his body opening up smoothly like Dante’s touch is a kind of key, the only key that could unlock him, the only unlocking Vergil could ever permit, letting Dante further in, deeper in. Almost lazily, he says, “You know that you don’t have to linger over this part.” 

Dante nips at the inside of his brother’s thigh in the smallest chastisement, then mouths at the same spot, conciliatory, tracing the strain in the muscles there. “What happened to letting me have this?”

“I would’ve thought you’d want to directly skip to the _having_ portion of events.” 

“Not gonna rush this time.” 

“You’ll savor me, is that it?” 

“I’m gonna be so good to you,” Dante says, breath snagging over his own honesty. 

Vergil pauses under him. He reaches out, stroking feather-light along Dante’s cheek, a ghost of a touch that skitters sparked fire across Dante’s skin. “Did you always have a heart this tender,” he asks. There is no mockery in his tone, just a gentle curiosity that is dangerous in its own right. 

Dante’s throat clogs up. He doesn’t know what Vergil sees in his face—maybe it’s Dante’s heart, his always-tender heart—but whatever it is, it jabs a small indent into Vergil’s brow and he opens his mouth to speak. Dante is quicker for once, leaning forward, kissing silent any retractions Vergil could utter. He presses in again with his fingers, intent, finding that place within his brother that makes Vergil shudder and arch up beautifully, his moan spilling decadent into Dante’s mouth. 

Dante has to close his eyes. Vergil like this can be overwhelming. Paralyzing in the best of ways. “The sounds you make, Verge. I love knowing I’m the only one who gets to hear it.” 

“That’s your privilege,” Vergil says, breathing harder, roseate at the cheeks and along his collarbones and down his chest. He’s a statue coming to radiant life, flooding with rich color. A sunrise meant only for Dante’s eyes.  

“It is,” Dante agrees easily. There’s so much about his brother that is a privilege. Vergil operates as if he is a secret within a secret, concealed in the shrouded heart of a labyrinth of his own making. Each pathway to himself that he chooses to reveal is monumental and Dante will not take them for granted.   

“Dante,” Vergil says in that unique way he has with the heaviness, the emphasis. “Now, Dante.” 

“Yeah,” Dante says, tightness in his voice, his belly, the cradle of his hips. “I've got you.”

Dropping one last kiss to the inside of Vergil’s thigh, Dante withdraws his fingers and curls them around his own dick, guiding, then sinking in with a care that begins ruining him in return. Barely a few inches into the hot clutch of Vergil’s body and Dante’s already close to going to pieces, a crackling charge not unlike the hum of his trigger zinging ferociously up his spine. It helps none that, below him, Vergil’s lips part for an openly sensual sigh, eyes falling into a half-lidded look, and, _fuck_ , fuck, Dante still hasn’t adjusted to how fucking good sultriness looks on Vergil. How good bliss looks. 

Dante gathers himself together and pushes in the rest of the way until they’re pressed as close as possible, this perfect alignment of them together aligning everything else in him that’s been off-balance for too long. It’s a moment that makes his breath falter. He groans, long and low, feels the reverberation of it scraping his chest and his throat. “Fuck, that’s—” He swallows. Inhales, exhales. Tries to think properly. Focus on his beautiful brother. “You feel so good. So fucking good.” 

The smallest sound slips out of Vergil as he rearranges his legs to lock around Dante’s hips in the sweetest snare. Slowly, he clenches down on Dante’s dick, dragging broken moans out from them both. “Again, Dante,” he orders hoarsely. 

Dante could simply take what he wants. He could drive on and satisfy the screaming need in him to fuck and fuck and _fuck_. The savage parts of him clamor vehemently with the urge, the demon gleeful. Everything else in him recoils, still faithfully loyal to the declaration he’d made to Vergil, so Dante rests his forearm beside Vergil’s head and keeps to slow, short thrusts, relishing the delicious clench and throb of Vergil around him. Ecstasy climbs in him in degrees, sweet, viscous. Honey in his veins. He feels lazy with it, sluggish with it. Wants to spend the whole night rocking in and out of his brother languidly and lose himself entirely in the maddeningly steady rise of pleasure that comes with an intimate fuck.  

“I’ll never get used to this,” he confesses. “I could have a hundred years of you and I still wouldn’t get used to it.” He doesn’t know if he means the fiery thrill of sliding into his brother, being held in the deep core of him, or _everything—_ Vergil’s skin smooth and whole beneath his fingers, his soothing voice arguing with him in the mornings, his half-read book left open on Dante’s desk as he trades it for Yamato instead. The fact that Dante’s allowed to know his brother in this way, with hands and mouth and cock, this much intimacy an impossible dream realized. It hits him every time they touch: soft wonderment that any of this is still real. 

“Such pretty flattery,” Vergil murmurs.  

“Not flattery,” Dante pants out against Vergil’s ear, nuzzling it delicately. “I mean it, Vergil. I mean it.” 

Vergil’s palms stroke over the shifting muscles of Dante’s slick back. He tips his head back on the pillow, body going loose like the tension in him has unspooled. “I know,” he says, hushed. “And you know—”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. The fractured sentence makes perfect sense. 

“That you feel the same. I do, yeah.” 

“So let’s set our sights higher,” Vergil says. “Two hundred years at least.” 

Dante laughs. “Three hundred. Five. A thousand.” 

He meets Vergil’s eyes and thinks, _Forever_ , and knows without a doubt that Vergil is thinking the same, too. 

Dante pushes in again, with a longer, deeper stroke this time, and Vergil’s hips rise and roll into it with a smoothness that had surprised Dante at first—his austere, stone brother possessing this unexpected, impossible sensuality to him that he shouldn't have—but Dante should never have been surprised at all. The secret had been in front of him in every battle: Vergil attacking with a body that rippled like silk and smoke and water, its fluidity wielded with precision to destroy. Now Vergil wields it to destroy him in another way and it's a destruction Dante welcomes, sinking eagerly down into the coordinated roll of their hips, branding Vergil’s damp throat with hot kisses and hot lashes of his tongue. 

The air’s muggy with the smell of their sex, and then suddenly sharp with the smell of brimstone and blood, pain exploding at Dante’s back: Vergil’s nails—no, too viciously sharp, has to be his claws—raking twin paths on either side of Dante’s spine. 

Dante’s lust careens up several notches, staticky at the edges. Vergil smirks up at him without remorse, his blown-out eyes mesmerizing—a dark night framed at the edges by moonlight. Dante could fall headlong into that darkness and never find his way back out and he’d be content, lost in such velvet. “Go ahead, claw me up,” he says, indulgent. “You can do whatever you want to me.” 

“Don’t I already?” Vergil says, his amusement breathless at the borders. 

“Good point. I oughta do something about that.” 

“But you won’t, because you prefer it like that,” says Vergil. The heat of his slow pants and long exhales gently burns Dante’s mouth. “You enjoy everything I do to you. All the pain—” his claws sinking into Dante’s back once more, “—and all the pleasure,” while his tongue slides teasingly over Dante’s lower lip. 

“And you?” Dante says, pointedly thrusting into his brother again, so that Vergil arches and pulls in a quick breath, tightening up beautifully. “You enjoying what I’m doin’ to you?”

“That I’m letting you do it at all should tell you everything.” 

Running a thumb over one proud cheekbone, Dante kisses his brother carefully. Sweetly. It's an impulse that’s anathema to his devil, sitting in his blood like a toxin that can’t be purged, and an impulse that he’s instinctively felt countless times before, unacted upon with Vergil so unreachable, too autocratic and devoted to his own terms to accept anything remotely affectionate. “Wanna do this for you all the time,” Dante says against Vergil’s lips. “I’ll make it real sweet and you wouldn’t have to do nothing, just enjoy it. Just forget everything ‘cept this. Us together. How right it always is.” Rolling his hips, Dante ducks his face down to press it against where he can feel the reverberation of Vergil’s small, husky groans and whispers, “God, you’re so fucking hot like this, baby.”

“You know," Vergil says through gritted teeth, "that I don’t like it when you call me that.”

“It’s condescending and infantilizing and you’ll stab me with the Yamato, I know, I know. I bet you got one of those summoned swords dangling over me right now.”  

“And claws on your back, don’t forget,” Vergil says, sharp tips skimming over the knobs of Dante’s spine.  

“Mmm, fine, but stab me after we’re done,” Dante concedes very benevolently. He wants to drag this out on ‘til his hips hurt and his cock is sore and neither of them can breathe for the bliss, minds in tatters, but he knows better. He doesn’t have long until Vergil’s imperious nature will take over. 

Pulling back, Dante runs his hands over Vergil’s thighs, easing them out of their hold on him and directing them over his shoulders, his new intent sharply clear. 

“Oh, are we getting serious now?” Vergil laughs and its usual smoothness is disturbed by guttural tones a human could never make. Another pulse of demonic power shudders through the air as strands of dark scales bloom along his skin, glistening and rippling like shifting, breathing tattoos that half cradle one eye and run along the edge of his jaw to spill down onto his throat. His deceptively human-soft mouth opens, baring brutal fangs that could rip out Dante's heart.

Dante is staggered by him. By his savage, stunning brother. 

"Fuck," he says raggedly, "you’re beautiful, you’re perfect,” and wonders, distantly, how it’s possible for him to want Vergil any more than he already does, because he _does_. He wants him with an intensity that's unreasonable and impossible and that exists nevertheless.

“It’s gratifying to see what I do to you,” Vergil says, the growls leaving him from a place too deep within, resonating along Dante’s body. 

They pluck at the devil in him that hungers after Vergil’s submission, that enjoys Vergil’s lack of it, darkly delighted by the defiance, the challenge his brother always presents. The charge that electrocutes Dante now is the same as the lightning of his trigger and his fingers sharpen into claws, his throat shredded by his own harsh, inhuman growls. He drags himself out, just ‘til only the head of his cock is keeping Vergil open, and then slams forward, fucking harder into him, as rough as he wants to be, knowing Vergil can withstand it, will revel in it, snarling with stormy delight, and Vergil does, growling his approval, fucking back. They’re feral with their desire, intent on bringing stupendous ruin to each other, and the raking pleasure is just as merciless as Vergil’s raking claws. 

If a world exists beyond his brother, Dante doesn’t care to know it. He can’t see or hear or feel anything but Vergil. Viciously, he demands to know, “Is this good enough for you, brother?” and it sounds like a threat, but the most loving kind. Like he is daring Vergil to deny that this maelstrom of brutal pleasure is nothing but pure perfection. 

His brother doesn’t disappoint. “ _Yes_ ,” Vergil hisses through his fangs, hips flowing wild, using Dante's dick as he pleases. “Keep it just like this. Just like this.” 

“Anything you want. Anything.” 

“Don’t you dare stop.” 

“Never,” Dante promises vehemently. “You drive me crazy. I want you all the fucking time, however I can get you.” 

“Good,” Vergil says with wicked satisfaction, voice deep and dark and owning. “Make sure it stays that way.” 

Dante wants to laugh. As if he could ever stray. As if his twenty four years of mourning and yearning intertwined aren’t a testament to his fealty. He presses that fealty into Vergil’s mouth with a kiss that’s barely possible, cutting up their lips, and he presses that fealty into Vergil’s throat with the scrape of his fangs over scales and softness alike. This is veneration edged with violence. Violence edged with love. No one else could do this; no one else could love Vergil as fully as Dante. They simply wouldn’t know how.

Dredging up all the control he can, Dante wills his devil back beneath his skin, his claws slipping into safely blunt human nails once more, and finally he reaches for Vergil’s cock where it’s bobbing between them, scraping against Dante’s belly. He bothers with no finesse, stroking Vergil sloppily but in time with the uncompromising thrusts he spears right into where Vergil needs it most, the place that turns pleasure white-hot and blinding. 

“C’mon, Verge, wanna see you—wanna see—c’mon—”

“ _Dante_ ,” Vergil groans, growls, tightening around Dante’s cock, tightening again and again. Long pulses of his come spurt between them, smudging over the scales on his skin, as he arches and shudders, the grip and release of his body unrelenting, tearing harsh groans out of Dante. 

Dante curls his come-stained hand around Vergil’s hip as he fucks him through his orgasm, drowns his brother under more sensation, and asks, “Am I pleasing you? Have I pleased you?” again because he can never know enough. 

“Utterly,” Vergil says, the single word so low and rough and scratchy that it must've clawed him up inside on its way out. 

The affirmation sinks into Dante; floods him with a sense of achievement almost as full as the pleasure coursing through his veins. 

He feels the urgent tightness of his balls, the orgasm that wants to sear through him. “Almost,” Dante manages. "I'm gonna—"

And then, softly harsh, his demon eyes gleaming nova-bright, Vergil says, “But I didn’t say you could come inside me, Dante."

It might have been a yell for the abrupt twist in Dante’s chest, breath-stealing and vicious. A panicked, “ _Please_ ,” falls out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Vergil, please, you gotta let me.” His hips come to a halt, his throat barely able to swallow with all the pleas crowding it. “Fuck, fuck, let me, Verge.” 

He doesn’t expect it to work so quickly, but his desperation must've been just perfect because his brother smiles, something that could nearly be kind, and says, “Forgive me, Dante. I’m being unfair when you’ve kept your word and worked so hard to please me.” Brushing their lips together, Vergil murmurs, “Now it's my turn to be good to you,” and that’s all the gentleness he spares Dante. He forces Dante off enough to shift his legs down around Dante's hips again and pulls him back in; the hard clamp of his ass around Dante’s dick that follows is a sudden punch of pleasure, pressure that makes Dante moan like he’s been seized by agony. 

Vergil doesn’t stop, clenching down relentlessly, working himself around Dante, demanding his orgasm. It’s not conscious thought that throws Dante back into grabbing at his brother but the pure need of his body singing for Vergil, screaming for him, and Vergil laughs with abundant satisfaction like he can hear that begging scream-song. “So fucking desperate for me,” he husks out, turning crudity into silk as always, claws cutting again into Dante’s back. “Go on, little brother, give me everything you have, it all belongs to me anyway,” and his fangs are at Dante’s neck, biting down the same moment his hands drag over the gouges he’s made alongside Dante's spine. 

The pain is scalding and welcome and the last piece of the puzzle that Dante needs. His orgasm hits like thunder behind his eyes and like a ripping roar through his mind, his body. His throat hurts from a frayed yell, hips still moving, blind with lust, the thrusts staggering but reluctant to leave Vergil, to abandon his hot, silk, slick core. “Kiss—me,” Dante groans somehow, “Vergil— Ver—”, because he needs it, even now in the midst of a sweeping orgasm, he needs Vergil’s mouth to make it all perfect. It’s sharp iron he tastes when Vergil grants him his plea—his blood, their shared blood—and the kiss is owning, Vergil laying claim even to Dante’s pleasure as it rolls out of Dante in long, hoarse moans. 

He loses several minutes that feel like several hours before the tumult calms at last and simmers more gently in the pathways of his body. Vergil's legs have fallen away from him, but his arms are steady around Dante, holding him as he trembles as though he's been fucked apart. He’s still inside his brother, caught in all the slickness, the wetness of his own come clutching his cock, and it pleases both the demon and the human in him. He enjoys it until he stops shaking, then eases himself out.

Then falls right back down onto Vergil.  

“Incorrigible,” Vergil mutters, pushing Dante off so that he's only half-sprawled over him. There are no more claws, only his smooth palms running up and down Dante's healed back.

Dante smiles lazily. He ignores the come drying on his hand, his belly, his cock, and closes his eyes, relaxing into the good drowsiness of afterglow. There's soft movement at his neck—Vergil's lips, gentle lapping at the junction he’d bitten Dante, where the blood is still wet. Dante sighs, tilting his neck to make it easier for his brother, and sluggishly decides that, when he can bring himself to leave the bed, he’ll run downstairs, grab more drinks, and sip the taste of them from Vergil’s mouth for the rest of the night. 

Eventually, Vergil noses his way back up Dante's throat, pressing their foreheads together. 

Dante opens his eyes. They’re close enough that he could count Vergil’s lashes. He luxuriates it in their proximity. Thinks: how the fuck did I ever live without you. Except it hadn’t been living in any real sense of the word. It had been mere survival. A meager ghost of an existence with as much weight to it as a dead wind. His brother is impossible to escape; even when he was gone, he had been impossible to escape. Countless nights Dante had spent lost in the memories, mired in Vergil. The books he’d loved to read, the song he'd once hummed to help their mother sleep. The times he’d laughed and smiled and grieved and died.  

“What are you thinking about?” Vergil asks. His hair is a tousled mess, its perfection entirely dismantled by all the locks fallen out of place, sticking to his skin.

“I’m not capable of thinking, remember?” Dante says as he gently touches those damp strands.  

Vergil isn't derailed. “So you're visiting the past again,” he deduces correctly. He's growing more and more skilled day by day at interpreting what Dante says and doesn't say, and Dante is unnerved by this just as he is relieved that there is still someone who can and will know him in his entirety, past all the careful concealment and straight into the raw truth of him. Vergil covers Dante's hand with his own, the grip firm. His usually incisive eyes are benign with understanding. “Stay with me, Dante, in the here and now.”

This is maybe Dante's most favored Vergil. This is Vergil without his well-wrought armor and terrible secrets and ice veneer. This Vergil, a rare and secret creature, elusive like a myth but real, so exquisitely real, in the end, is Dante’s alone. No one will see Vergil unveiled like this. It’s more intimate than any and all of their fucking. 

“I wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else,” Dante says and seals the words between their mouths, kissing Vergil softly, languorously, with a tenderness he’d thought he’d lost from how rough and worn the years have left him. “Hey," he says when they break apart. "Guess what?"

"Hmm?"

Dante smiles. "It’s not enough.”   

Vergil doesn't suppress the urge to roll his eyes this time. “Consider learning some self-control, perhaps.”

“Sounds like a drag. Unless, of course, you’re willing to teach me?”

“You’ll need an inordinate amount of lessons and I still have a lot of books to get through.” 

Dante tsks. “That’s loser talk. I’m disappointed in you, Verge.” 

“Disappointment, Dante?” Vergil levels him with a glance similarly unimpressed. “If we’re going to talk about disappointment, we should talk about how you seem to mistakenly believe your service to me is over."

“Oh?" Dante says, unsurprising tendrils of heat thrumming back up in him. "Enlighten me.” 

“You should already know.” 

Dante tilts his head. Glances slowly down Vergil’s body, where the sticky evidence of their pleasure is painted out. “Ah,” he says, understanding, and smiles just as slow. “You’re right. You still need cleaning up.”

“And yet here you are talking when you could already be putting your mouth to actual good use.” 

“What a goddamn tragedy. I should be shot for that.” 

“Stabbed,” Vergil corrects. “I’m not touching your foul guns.” 

“Kinda feel like the blame is one-sided, though,” Dante feels compelled to point out. “Who’s the one that’s gotten blood on our sheets?”

"Maybe you're right there," Vergil says, first running the pads of his fingers, then his blunt nails, over where he’d opened Dante up with a claw. Dante shivers. “But I have a feeling you didn’t really mind it. You might even complain if I don’t do it again.”  

“I’m gonna neither confirm nor deny,” Dante says and watches Vergil smirk with triumph at the non-answer that gives Vergil the answer he wants anyway. That triumph smoothly shifts into hot satisfaction as Dante lowers his mouth to Vergil’s chest and licks at the first splatters of come. There’s a trail all over Vergil’s belly, spreading down to in between his legs; Dante will diligently follow it to where it ends at his brother’s slick opening and lap him clean. It wouldn’t do to leave a job half-finished.  

“Make sure to be thorough, Dante,” Vergil says with all the lazy entitlement of a king, leaning his head back onto the pillow. “You’ve made such a mess.”

“Don’t worry, I'll take good care of it,” Dante promises smokily. "Of you." That hunger-thirst inside him for his brother blinks its perpetually open eyes again, and Dante dips his head down to properly tend to Vergil. To serve and please him some more, as is only right. 


End file.
